A Jade's Trick (Lilly Black's Jaded Series Book 1)

© 2015 by Lilly Black

Cover Photography & Design by Lilly Black

www.lillyblackauthor.com

All rights reserved

Electronic Edition

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All characters in
A Jade's Trick
are fictional, and any resemblance to real persons is coincidental.

Please accept apologies for any formatting issues that appear when the book is viewed on some devices.  These issues occurred during the conversion process and were unavoidable.  Thank you for your understanding.

Warning:  This book contains adult situations and graphic sex.

Acknowledgements
:

For my husband without whom I would never have experienced the level of love and intimacy necessary to create this book series and the characters therein.

Special Thanks:

to Robert for suffering through a romance novel to proofread the final copy for me,

to Judy for patiently proofreading the long, superfluous version,

and

to Tawni for her inspiration and fashion sense.

I hear the sound of the chain again, and I feel myself being lifted as he pulls it through the eyelet.  The tips of my toes no longer touching the ground, I'm completely vulnerable, but in his hands, I feel safe.  Kissing me, he wraps my legs around his hips and walks us forward until I'm pinned against the wall.  I grip the chain above my cuffs for support as he thrusts into me, my back sliding up and down the smooth, cold concrete as we begin to fuck.

Blindfolded, my head full of pheromones, and his tongue in my mouth, the sound of the chain is melodic and every stroke of his cock heaven.  His teeth find my neck, nipping at me from ear to shoulder, where he bites down extracting a sharp, rapturous moan, the mix of pleasure and pain exquisite as I dig my heels into his ass like spurs, wanting more.  He gives it to me, harder and deeper, and though weary from the chain, I will my arms to hold out just a little longer as the impending orgasm seizes me...almost there...so close...so...

No!
My mind and body protest in unison as he stops abruptly, withdrawing from me, and I foolishly make my disappointment known with a whine.  Suffering the loss of him like a phantom limb, I feel the sting of his palm on my thigh, his other hand clutching my throat just tight enough to make his point.  I know what he wants before I hear the command.  He wants me to beg, and trembling with need, I have no shame.

"Please, Master," I plead.  "Please let me come." 

Merciful, he returns to me, swiftly taking me back to the precipice, controlling me skillfully, keeping me right on the edge until, in a mind-blowing, white-hot flash, I'm thrown into the chasm below.  I cry out - his name, God's, I don't know - but I scream it into him as his mouth assaults mine, his tongue like his cock, driven into me as I writhe against him, losing my rhythm, my legs aching from the effort of the journey.  I try to steady him, to hold him still through the aftershocks, but he's relentless, using me, spending me, possessing me.  I feel him tighten, growing to his absolute limit inside of me, and though I thought I had reached my own limit, hearing the sweet sound of his ecstasy reawakens the need within me, radiating outward in intense waves, my body a slave to his beautiful, perfect cock.

"Harder!" I beg, and he slams into me, rigid and smooth as marble.  I arch my back as he fills me, fucking me deeper and faster until I lose control.

"Oh, fuck!  Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!" I cry, and in one final, devastating thrust, my entire body shudders in a violent release as he crushes me against the wall, his hands in a death grip on the flesh of my hips, his cock slowly grinding into me, throbbing with the accelerated beating of his heart.  Finally, I let go of the chain, collapsing into him, and he folds his arms around me, kissing me softly on the forehead.

"I love to make you come, Evan," he whispers, his every word more precious to me than the air I breathe...

...But this almost never happened.

Fuck me,
I sigh as I step out of the elevator and see the crowd.  Mondays are supposed to be our slow night at Prometheus when we make up for having half-assed the closing shifts over the weekend, but there is no time for catch-up tonight.  Classes have just started back for the fall semester at the University of San Diego, and now the young, urban, rich assholes from the mansions of La Jolla are joined by a crowd of students coming here for the newfound trendiness since the re-envisioning of the rooftop bar that used to be called Bentley's.  Jumping right in, Nicole picks up a tray, and I begin mixing, hoping no one orders any of the fiery table service concoctions that have become our trademark.

"I need a Stella, two cosmos and six flamers," Nicole shouts, tying her red apron behind her back as she stands at the waitress station at the end of the bar.  Fortunately, flamers are just shooters served in small, volcano-like beakers with a bit of 151 proof rum floated on top. I give Nicole a rack of them, set them on fire, and send her on her way.

As I look out over the crowd, it's obvious that the college kids are back, but these are not the same sort of kids Bentley's attracted.  There used to be wall to wall frat apes getting girls falling down drunk, but thanks to the company Dave hired to turn this place around, we now have a different caliber of frat ape.  Like everyone else, they're here to see and be seen since we implemented a strictly enforced dress code, and our new, less tolerant cutoff point makes it a much better working environment for me.  At twenty-three, having tended bar since well before I was legal, I don't drink much at all anymore, and when I think back on the days when I did, it dredges up the sort of memories that leave me in a cold sweat.  I can't believe some of the choices I made, and though the past that drove me to those choices was beyond my control, I take full responsibility for my actions, letting my mistakes haunt me and mark me.  They've made me cold.

"A Dos Equis, a Labatt's, and an Asgård gin and tonic," says a guy bulling his way up to the bar in front of me.  "And you can just go ahead and jot your number down on a napkin."  He winks and places a pen on the bar.  This guy's the type who assumes that his looks, expensive clothes, and the hundred dollar bill he flashed for payment will make my panties drop, but I'm not impressed.  He ordered the same round from Nicole half an hour ago and got back plenty of change from the hundred I had to break for her.

I grab his beers and pull the gin down from the top shelf.  Asgård is a label the old Bentley's crowd could never afford, but with the distillery in North San Diego County and Prometheus geared toward the local trust fund babies, we keep it stocked.  At $23 per shot, I've been amazed at how much we've gone through.

"That'll be thirty-seven dollars," I say, placing the drinks on the bar.

"Keep it," he says proudly as he hands me the hundred.  I thank him without looking up as I count his change out of the register, but he clears his throat and taps on the bar with his pen.

"Go to hell, Frat Boy," I say, shoving his change in my tip jar.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see his astonishment, and I enjoy it as I head to the end of the bar to check Nicole's drink order.

"What an ass!" I hiss.

"He sure is pretty, though," she says with a wistful smile.

"If you're into frat apes with trust funds," I say, rolling my eyes.

"And his friend is even prettier."  She winks.

Okay, I get it now.
  She wants me to take one for the team so she can have a crack at his friend.  That's not going to happen, but I take a quick look anyway.  I have to lean out over the end of the bar to see where Frat Boy is sitting with two other guys at one of the private tables with the red canvas sails overhead.  I have a clear line of sight to the others, but for the one sitting on the left, I have to stretch a little more, putting my weight on the bar with my toes nearly off the ground because I can't quite see...

Oh. Fuck. Me. 
If I were to build the perfect beast, he would look exactly like the man sitting on the left side of that booth.  Wearing a grey suit jacket over a black, silk shirt, his hair, though a little too long for business, is a dark blonde shade that could easily be streaked with platinum if he spent too much time outside in the California summer, but his skin is only faintly sun-kissed.  He's leaned back in his seat with an air of confidence and detachment, his mannerisms implying more years than his flesh, and though he is an absolute work of art, he's far too expensive a work for me.  Guys like him are interested in girls like me for one reason.

Already rejected by him in my mind, I'm just about to move on when we lock eyes.  Though embarrassed to be caught, I won't let his eyes chase mine away because I'm not the shy, blushing type.  Well, not usually, but as I look at this magnificent male specimen, I can only hope that his eyes aren't as attuned as mine to filtering out the red, ambient lighting because I can feel that his gaze has turned my cheeks the color of my shirt.  Giving him a last look, I crinkle my nose and slide back down to my feet, feeling vulnerable and exposed, like he has somehow seen through my painstakingly-crafted facade.

Pretty doesn't even begin to cover it, Nicole
, I think as I contemplate the backlog of drink orders this distraction has cost me.  I move as fast as I can to catch up until I feel myself drawn to a soft, masculine voice requesting "an Asgård and tonic, a Dos Equis, and a Labatt's...when you have a moment."  I look up to see Frat Boy's friend, the beautiful one, and I wonder how he managed to discretely get my attention over the relentless cackling of tipsy girls at the bar.  Then I realize the girls aren't cackling anymore.  His presence has silenced them.

I know just how you feel, ladies
, I think as I look up at him to see that he stands over six feet.  Tall, blonde, and hot as fuck - fate isn't playing fair with this godlike amalgamation of recessive traits.

"Thirty-seven dollars," I say a few minutes later when I deliver his drinks.

"Keep it," he says, handing me a fifty.  I thank him, and he nods, turns gracefully, and walks away, the crowd parting for him as if it were all choreographed. Like all the other women, I'm transfixed, time standing still as I watch him from behind in his perfectly-fitted, charcoal, pinstripe suit.

You're playing with fire,
I warn myself, but I can't help it, even though I know damn well if his looks were stripped away, all that would be left is another overindulged, egotistical playboy who thinks he can snap his fingers and walk out of here with any girl he wants.  The difference is, this one actually can walk out of here with any girl he wants...any girl but me.

Disgusted with myself, I focus only on my work, glad it's overwhelmingly busy because it puts the pretty playboy right out of my mind until I look up about thirty minutes later to find his friend standing there with another hundred.  He reminds me that I never gave him my number, and I remind him that I never intended to.  Then I begin counting the minutes I'll have to wait until they're ready for refills.

"Another round?" I ask about half an hour after that, carrying a bottle of beer between every two fingers as I pass Tall, Blonde, and Gorgeous.

"Please," he says, and I grab his friends' bottles from the cooler before mixing his gin and tonic.

"By the way, I'm sorry about Steph."  He indicates the direction of his table with a motion of his head as I return to him.  Steph must be Frat Boy's name.

"Someone should be," I snipe, setting his drinks on the bar.

"Keep it,"  he says, sliding me another fifty, mouthing the words as if he has realized that making a show of tipping me is not something I like.  I know that's how it works, and until I finish my degree, it's my best option shy of stripping.  I still don't like it.

"Thanks," I say.

"You're welcome...uh..." he pauses and looks at my shirt where a nametag would be if I had one.

"Not interested, Playboy," I snap at him out of habit.

"Playboy," he says, raising an eyebrow, then he dips his head slightly and simply carries the drinks away.  No argument.  No comeback.  Nothing.

"It's Evan.  My name's Evan," I call out without even thinking.

God, how desperate did that sound?!
I chide myself, cringing, but as he stops in his tracks, I'm suddenly on pins and needles, praying for him to turn around and come back to me.  He doesn't, but a few minutes later Nicole comes to the bar with an order for a tableside service for them.

I do the prep work to make three Fire Goddesses, carefully layering the liqueurs into the shot glasses in neat bands, then I slip into my stiletto heels and put on red, pleather opera gloves that will allow me to spill a narrow flow of 151 rum down one arm to trickle the flammable proof into shot glasses.  I carry a mini fire extinguisher in my apron pocket just in case, and though I've never had to use it, as I head toward the table with the Norse god, I'm sure if I ever screw up and need to pull it out, it will be tonight.

Leaving Nicole to tend the bar, I approach their table to find that walking all this way in my fuck-me pumps was for naught as they have been joined by three girls, and Playboy isn't even here.  I had assumed ordering these specialty drinks was a ploy to get me to their table, but seeing these other women with them, I suddenly feel very small and plain...like nothing more than the insignificant barmaid I probably am to these men.

"Before you get started," Steph says as I set the shot glasses on the table.  "Can you add three more for our lovely guests?" 

Irritated, I head off to set up the additional drinks, and though I'm too busy for it and know I shouldn't do it, I take the long way to the bar to give Playboy time to get back to his seat before I return.  I walk around the lava-red waters of the reflecting pool, trying not to be obvious as I scan the crowd for him when someone bumps me, and with one wrong step, I become swiftly and painfully aware that I am about to fall in the pool! 

Mortified, just before I suffer complete humiliation in front of everyone, someone comes out of nowhere and scoops me up like a super hero.  I look up warily and see Playboy's eyes inches from my own, our faces so close we could kiss, and
oh, fuck me!
  I don't know whether to blame the fact that his scent has set the entire surface of my skin ablaze or that everyone nearby starts clapping at my dramatic rescue, but I blush in his arms.  That's twice now.  I need get away from him with what little dignity I have left.

"You can put me down now," I snap.

"I don't even get a thank you?" he asks with a smug grin.

"Thank you," I say grudgingly.  "Now put me down." 

"Yes, ma'am," he says, setting me gently on my feet, and as I straighten my clothes and adjust the shoe on the foot that tripped, he leans over to whisper in my ear.

"You should really be more careful playing in mommy's shoes, little girl."